


maybe, perhaps, almost.

by alekstraordinary



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Fights, First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Near Death, Rejection, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24358888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary
Summary: As though to make himself seem taller and more serious despite his rather tattered state, Oswald straightened up, tilting his head back slightly and replied without as much as missing a beat: “You heard me,” he uttered boldly, with a hint of pride, almost like a challenge. He took a step forward, his limp making itself more prominent after the events of the past hours. “I want you to kiss me.”
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 21
Kudos: 98





	1. could have

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine my surprise when I've realized that I can just say "ah fuck you" to the screenwriters and write whatever the fuck I want without any good reason whatsoever so here you go! A scene of Oz's and Ed's first kiss that god-fucking-damn perfectly fit in the show. Spoiler alert: it hurts and it has a questionable ending as to what happens next ah,,, who knows maybe I'll write a part two of this!

“I want you to kiss me.”

Ed stopped in his tracks rapidly, as if his feet suddenly grew into the crumbling floor underneath, tension quickly gathering in his shoulders, in his chest, and at the base of his neck. The skin at the back of his head and hands crawled, the fine hairs standing up as a block of ice had suddenly crystallized at the very pit of his stomach, spreading freezing cold through the fibres of his aching body. His head snapped up and he stilled entirely, like an animal sensing a predator lurking in its surroundings, listening to the silence around him as if he was still able to catch the echo of the words already spoken lingering in the air. He could nearly feel the pressure of the molecules forcing down a weight onto him, far greater than the weariness and the foul stench would ever manage, recognizing that it was an emotional sensation, but of such immense intensity that it nearly caused physical symptoms to appear. Still, surely, he must have had misheard something, or perhaps he so dearly hoped he had. He was tired, exhausted even, injured and hurting, and without any motivation whatsoever to deal with this kind of a challenge in that very moment. “What?” he asked despite the worst scenarios playing out in his head, as he turned around to handle this face to face. 

As though to make himself seem taller and more serious despite his rather tattered state, Oswald straightened up, tilting his head back slightly and replied without as much as missing a beat: “You heard me,” he uttered boldly, with a hint of pride, almost like a challenge. He took a step forward, his limp making itself more prominent after the events of the past hours. “I want you to kiss me.” 

With prickling irritation in his head and a tightness in his lungs, Ed exhaled with a deep sigh, eyelids falling shut for a moment, hand raising up to rub at his temples. He couldn’t believe this, he simply couldn’t believe that after everything that had happened _this_ still seemed to be a topic worth discussing. “Oswald,” he said gutturally, the beginnings of a headache already settling themselves deep inside his skull and right behind his eyes. Had he not made himself more than abundantly clear in this matter before? Had he not stressed it well enough that nothing was going to happen between them, and the feeling was not mutual, unrequited? If shooting someone, saying you didn’t love them and then dumping their dying body into the river had not been enough, truly, next time Ed ought to make sure that Oswald was going to _stay_ dead. “We’ve already been over this. I told you, I don’t-”

Oswald waved his hand in front of himself, a gesture infuriatingly effective in getting people to stop talking when it was him doing it. He took a moment, like for a brief second couldn’t breathe, like Ed had just slapped him instead of telling him the simple truth. “I don’t…” he began slowly, choosing his words carefully but the feelting blink of vulnerability was gone, his face tensing. “I don’t… care, Ed,” he spoke, although both of them knew that it wasn’t quite the truth and that the edges of his seemingly cold and hard confidence were blurry and soft and tender. He stepped even closer then, as close as they used to stand next to each other when Oswald was still the Mayor and Ed was still his Chief of Staff, meaning too close and yet not close enough at the same time. “I don’t care that you don’t love me, Ed,” he stated loudly and clearly, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. 

“Then why do you-”

This time, he was not allowed to finish. “You owe me,” Oswald told him, and although he wanted to appear self-assured and like he was in charge of the situation, Ed could see the cracks in his facade, something pink and fragile peeking through. They had known each other too long and too intimately to be unable to see such clear signs of internal distress. “You got your closure and good for you, truly, but I _didn’t_. I deserve to get closure, too.” There was an emotion to his tone, but not the shaky and jittery one he so often expressed, but rather toned and smooth, calculated. This was not a spontaneous decision, or it didn’t seem so. He had either been planning this from the very start, or he had at least considered this request, this scenario before. “And you owe me, Ed, you owe me at least this much.” He raised his chin. “As a goodbye to the people we used to be.” 

In his first instinct, Ed wanted to refuse. After all, this was a completely ridiculous and illogical thing to ask for. How could a _kiss_ , of all things, possibly offer closure? And, more importantly, how was Oswald unable to work towards it by himself? It did take Ed quite a few weeks and a certain amount of drugs but in the end, he had managed to recover from the slight trauma he had given himself from, what he thought at the time was, murdering his best friend. He did know, of course, that not everyone worked in such a rational way as he did but still, he couldn’t even begin to understand the motivations behind this request, or rather a demand, other than luring Ed impossibly close to then stab him in the least expected moment. Except that Oswald’s hands were empty, and if he was truly intending on killing him, he had been given more than one opportunity for it. Whatever love he had still held for Ed, it seemed to make him incapable of ending his life. Were he any different, were he still insecure and lost within himself, Ed would use this as an asset, as a means of knowing that he would certainly not be killed from Oswald’s hands. But he had grown now, he was his own man who didn’t need others and their mercy. Were there anyone, anyone at all coming to cross him, he was certain that he would come out on top. He didn’t need special treatment from _anyone_.

“Fine,” he groaned at last, not failing to notice the quick change in Oswald’s pupils, dilating even wider than they already were, almost completely swallowing the blue-green of his eyes, leaving nothing but a thin rim at the very edges behind. “But,” Ed added, raising his finger, “just this once. This is a one-time thing, and we are never _ever_ going to talk about all… _that_ again.” His words came out harshly and decidedly, perhaps even more so than he intended to make sure that his point would come across. He had been severely hurt by Oswald’s so-called love and nothing good had come out of it for anyone. If this were his chance to end it, once and for all, he was willing to make this sacrifice. It was a small price to pay for knowing that he would no longer have to be plagued by it, unable to escape it even under the influence of drugs. It was unbearable, as if the idea of Oswald loving him crawled into his brain like a caricature of a spider and lied its eggs inside his brain, and even now he still had to tear down the cobwebs it left behind, and catch the pesky little things wandering around his mind from time to time. 

With a rather poor imitation of what was supposed to be a smile, Oswald exhaled harshly through his nose. “Of course,” he assured. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just this once.” He then grabbed Ed by the front of his shirt, tugging at it to force him to bend down so their faces would be at appropriate levels. Ed grit his teeth as he leaned in, refusing to take an active part in it, and to withstand it passively instead. Maybe, just maybe, a part of him _wanted_ to actually participate in this, solely to prove to himself that he held no feelings of such kind.

When Oswald first kissed him Ed felt nothing, there was only a void in the place of his heart and crackling static in his brain. It was nothing but an empty, physical act with an intent and a feeling on one end, but with no reciprocation on the other. But then Oswald’s hand moved and it curled at the back of Ed’s neck, almost desperately, like a man drowning, his thumb stroking over the warm skin and then sliding up to the ear, brushing over the lobe, caressing. Suddenly their lips fit together perfectly like puzzle pieces, meshing and blending together into one another. Before Ed even knew it, he was kissing Oswald back, chasing the faint taste of blood and cigarettes in his mouth, his fingers twitching to grab Oswald and pull him closer. Something deep in his guts stirred as he felt a brief flick of a tongue and a light pinch of teeth. His entire body grew hotter, the hum in his head replaced with the pulsating roar of his blood, his heart swelling up like it was going to burst at the seams, his lungs heavy and collapsing in on themselves.

And then it was suddenly all gone, the thrill of the kiss and the plush of Oswald’s lips against his own gone. Ed needed a moment to focus his vision back on Oswald’s face, head spinning. His cheeks flushed up, contrasting sharply with the hollow look in those blue-green eyes. One of his hands was still grabbing at the front of Ed’s shirt, like it was the last thing connecting them anymore. “Goodbye, Ed,” he said then, his voice balancing on a thin fine edge, fabric slipping through his fingers. “Don’t get ever get in my way again. I have no reason not to make you pay.” 

That was the last thing he said before turning around and limping away, hand raising to brush over his face, no doubt to wipe away the tears that were rising up just seconds ago. Ed was left there, alone and dumbfounded, unable to move, unable to think, unable to breathe. When he finally did exhale, after Oswald had already gone, it was shaking and trembling and on the verge of panic. Only then did his mind get the impulse to pick up the pieces he had been left with, try to fit them together, try to make sense of them. That kiss was wrong. It felt wrong. It felt wrong because of how _right_ it felt. “No,” Ed muttered to himself as he closed his eyes, sliding his hands into his hair. He shook his head as everything began falling into place, bit by bit, interaction by interaction, twitch of his heart by twitch. It made sense. It all made a perfect sense, formed a logical structure, an explainable chain of actions and consequences. But it was wrong. It had to be wrong, hadn’t it? It was impossible that he wouldn’t see it, that he would overlook it, or that he would misinterpret it. Months upon months of carefully curating his emotions, keeping himself in check at all times, balancing being vulnerable with keeping all the soft parts behind tightly closed doors. It was _impossible_ that he had fallen for Oswald. He would have had noticed that it was happening, he would have recognized these feelings, he would have had _known_.

It was impossible that he was in love with Oswald because that would mean that he was also the one who had ruined it. That it was because of him that it was now there lying in front of him, dead, broken, and rotting, and he was the one who beat it there, who destroyed it, who _killed_ it. That it was always going to stay a maybe. It was always going to stay a perhaps.

_They_ were always going to stay an almost. 


	2. should have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henlo! This fic was supposed to be a one-shot but then one night while in a half-awake haze I thought of part two so I decided that this was going to be a multi-chapter! So there enjoy your daily dose of pain! I would also like to mention that yes this is going to have a happy end eventually but hey what's good in comfort if you don't suffer a little to get to it? (;

“You were right.”

Oswald’s hand stilled in the air just as his fingers were about to wrap around the slim stem of the wine glass standing in front of him, right next to the silver plate with his half-eaten meal. The dining room was dim and warm, illuminated only by trembling orange candlelight and heated by high flames burning and crackling in the fireplace nearby, yet there was still a freezing shiver running down his spine upon hearing those words. The muscles of his entire core immediately tensing so tightly it hurt, his jaw clenching to the point of teeth cracking, even his heart stopping completely for an endlessly long second. His lungs seemed empty and punctured, unable to take in air, and his skin cold like all the heat had been sucked out the room, or like it had never been there in the first place. Whether it was caused by shock, fear, or shreds of foolish hope, he couldn’t tell, but it all disappeared as soon as he raised his gaze, quickly replaced by something much hotter and much more intense. Anger sizzled in his stomach and then exploded vehemently at the pit of it like a stray spark catching on spilt gasoline, the fire of it spreading through his body, melting away all the frost that covered his insides by surprise. He felt the violent weight of it as it hit his head, blood roaring, red spots sprouting at the rim of his vision. Still, despite that, he put on a pretend smile and took his glass in hand calmly. “I always am. You’re going to have to be a little more specific,” he said, his voice nonchalant, although his eyes screamed for murder. “You can give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you killed on the spot, while you’re at it.” 

With his hands raised up to the level of his shoulders to signal that he was unarmed, Ed took another step inside and threw a quick glance behind, a gun pointed at his back. Oswald gestured at the bodyguard with irritation, making it clear that he wanted to be left alone, that he was able to handle this on his own. “You were right,” Ed repeated, a wide toothy smile spreading across his chiselled face, the fiery glow accentuating all the sharp angles, shadows thrown across his skin. He seemed surprisingly comfortable for someone who had just knowingly, and wilfully, walked into the belly of the beast, yet at the same time his frame was slightly blurry at the very edges, like he was unable to keep quite still. Like there was a buzzing in his guts or bubbles in his veins. He was _thrilled_. “You were right about _everything_!” he exclaimed excitedly, emphasizing the last word with a sweeping wave of his arms. 

Twitching impatiently for the gun holstered safely at the underside of the table, Oswald sighed with irritation, pinching at the bridge of his hooked nose. There was already pressure at his temples and at the back of his head, not yet pushed over the line, but threatening with a migraine. “I am _not_ answering your riddles, _Ed_ ,” he groaned. “So you can either tell me what you want, or I can-”

He was interrupted by an energetic clap of hands and a genuinely pleased chuckle. “It’s not a riddle,” Ed stated, although it was rather difficult to believe a single word he said due to his past actions, that ridiculous bowler hat, and the theatrical manner in which he talked and moved—bending his knees slightly, turning both of his index fingers up to the ceiling, making his already unnaturally wide grin grow even more. "Not this time." He was putting on a dramatic show as always, but there was something off about him this time, something Oswald couldn’t quite decipher nor ignore. Ed seemed almost agitated, vibrating with a frenzied enthusiasm, pacing to and fro like he couldn’t contain whatever thoughts were bothering him. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop thinking about  _ it _ ,” he continued, clenching his fist until the leather of his gloves crackled loudly. “I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t focus on anything. But then… then it all made sense. You were  _ right _ .” He pointed at Oswald and stepped closer, his eyes shining ill like those of a man tormented by a fever he couldn’t put out. “You cannot have one without the other.”

Although he recognized the words he had once uttered in an act of overwhelming desperation, Oswald couldn’t begin to understand why they were being brought up. In the past, every mention of the feelings he had once held for Ed had been used to humiliate him in the vilest manner, to taunt him mercilessly and to hurt him, each time spat out like a poisoned bullet digging deep into his flesh and soul. However, this time he could sense no malice, no underlying motive to deceive him or to play at his expense, all of which only made his suspicion spike. He tensed up further, an unimpressed grimace twisting his pale face. “Really, Ed?” he asked sourly, putting his glass down with a little more force than intended, the red liquid spilling over the edge and licking at his fingers. “You must be… far dumber than you’d like to have people believe if you genuinely think that  _ this _ would work on me anymore.”

“What? No!” Ed came in even closer, fisted hands right under his chin. “I  _ mean _ it,” he assured, the fluttering and unfamiliar emotion in his voice intensifying, surfacing over his excitement, painting it in a more intense and brightly saturated tone. “I thought and thought about it and you were  _ right _ , Oswald. I need you, just as much as you need me. And I love you.”

What blurted out of Oswald’s mouth was distorted and wry, a semi-hysterical knock-off parody of a laugh, resembling more of a starving dog’s bark than a sound of amusement a human could make. It swell in his lungs and erupted with an intensity he didn’t even think he was capable of, causing his shoulders to jump, teeth to show, and wrinkles to crack around his suddenly teary eyes. Then it all stopped almost instantaneously as he saw the nearly ecstatic face Ed had worn until now chip away, peel off and drop down entirely, like a house of cards destroyed by a careless hand. “Wait,” he snorted, his eyebrows raising, something one part sick delight and one part unspeakable hurt bubbling up inside him, filling every nook and cranny of his being. “You don’t… you  _ can’t _ genuinely believe that.” He scoffed again. “You don’t love me, Ed. You never could and you never would, and you’ve made sure to make it more than abundantly clear to me in, on multiple occasions.” 

Taking a step back, as if suddenly startled, Ed shook his head. “No, that’s…” he closed his eyes, clearly trying to gather his thoughts back. “Well, I suppose that it is correct but  _ I  _ was wrong, Oswald. I’ve analyzed… every single time I saw you and talked to you since the first we met, and the more I thought about it the more sense it made.” He risked a smile, but it was an unsure one, shaking and smudged. His whole frame became hazy and disrupted, like the persona he had so meticulously crafted for himself to hide behind was coming apart at the seams, revealing something much more tender and fragile, something so much more scared underneath. “The more sense  _ we _ made. Those feelings I’ve been having for you, but I never knew what they were, because they were different for what I felt for Kristen. And then I realized.” The corners of his mouth shook. “I love you. And I always have.” 

The speed at which Oswald raised up to his feet caused his chair to fall backwards, hitting the floor with a loud crash echoing through the room. “You  _ don’t _ love me, Ed!” he exclaimed, emphasizing every single word with force as he stepped impossibly close to Ed, head tilted so he could look straight into those cruel brown eyes he had once loved so very deeply. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m  _ not _ falling for it! Maybe you forgot, but you  _ shot me _ ! You kind of lost all of your ability to persuade me back then!” 

His movements becoming erratic, Ed raised his hands defensively but he did not try pulling back even an inch. “This is  _ not _ a game, Oswald.” His voice quieted down to a ragged barely-above-a-whisper, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed down audibly, fingers trembling. “Shooting you was a mistake, and I regretted it, and it felt like I was killing a part of myself. I have… no other motivation to come here, to risk my life, other than to tell you that I love you.”

Had he not felt like it was below him, Oswald would have loved nothing more than to punch Ed in that very moment, feel the sharp bones against his knuckles, but as his fingers curled into a tight fist, he had begun to slowly realize that what he was being told was nothing but the truth. No matter the later course of their relationship, there had been once a time when the two of them had known each other intimately and spoke to each other candidly—a time that had given them more than enough opportunities to learn the other one’s mannerisms and tone in moments of honest vulnerability. And that was exactly what Oswald was being given, right there in front of him, on a silver platter, split open and raw and true. “You… don’t love me,” he said slowly, letters rolling off his tongue with pleasure, yet each one of them cutting his lips until they bled. “You once told me that love was about sacrifice, and the only thing you’ve ever sacrificed was  _ me _ for  _ Isabella _ .” He smacked his lips. “Except I don’t think that you loved her either. I think you just wanted to repent for the first girlfriend you killed.” A half-suffocated, pained snicker whistled between his teeth. “No, Ed.  _ I  _ loved  _ you _ .  _ I _ was ready to give my  _ life _ for you, and you  _ ruined _ me. So you don’t love me, Ed. I don’t even think you know  _ how  _ to.” 

Distressed stutter and quick gestures came back as his response. “No,” Ed insisted, making a wave over his head like his very psyche was crumbling, unable to withstand being confronted with something that, in his twisted mind, formed a logical structure. “That is  _ not _ true! I do love you, and I have loved you, and I just…” He cut off abruptly, stilling entirely for a brief moment, his breathing coming out in a loud exhale, his forehead smoothing. Then he cupped Oswald’s face with his abnormally large hands and pulled him up into a tight kiss. Ed’s lips felt so unbearably hot against Oswald’s own it burned, and firm like an intruder he was very quickly losing his power to fight against. It was desperate, filled to the brim with deep-seated longing, and searching for something neither one of them knew was even still there, like the answer could be found in the crook of Cupid’s bow or at the tip of a pink tongue. But there was a comforting sweetness to the gentle nip at his bottom lip, an almost familiar comfort to the sensation of thumbs stroking over his cheeks, all of it right before there was bitter bile surging in his stomach, rising up to his throat and polluting his mouth.

The moment of weakness lasted maybe five seconds, but it was more than enough to reignite the almost forgotten wrath scorching behind Oswald’s eyes. His hands found their way onto Ed’s chest and pushed him back with all the strength there was in him. “Do not!” he shouted out, trembles going all over his body, heart’s violent pace strong enough to shatter his ribcage. “Do not  _ ever _ do that again! I am giving you my last warning, Edward Nygma! If I  _ ever _ see you again, I will paint the walls with your brains! Now get out!  _ Get out! _ ”

He had half a mind to even look at the array of emotions that flashed through Ed’s face—from confused and shocked, through frightened and pained, to equally sour and angered—too focused on not falling apart when the last string that held him together creaked and twisted, shook almost as uncontrollably as his fingers. Barely hearing the fading footsteps and the slam of the front door, he sat heavily in the nearest chair, tugging at his tie frantically. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs crumpling and giving in under the crushing weight pressing at his body, his vision becoming blurry, his mind speeding at a pace he couldn’t keep up with. There was an ugly, broken sob deep inside him, but his throat was too tightly clenched to let it pass through. His guts twisted and turned as he put his face in his hands, unable to do as much as to form a single coherent thought, unable to process all of this, unable to believe it. He had once hoped, believed so very helplessly, that his feelings maybe had been reciprocated, perhaps that he had even been worthy of it, but when the flame of that love rolled over his body the only thing it achieved was to burn away and leave a smouldering corpse of the tender thing that had once lived in his chest. It hurt. It hurt like there was barbed wire under his skin and shattered glass in his veins and knives in his stomach.

It hurt because it was almost real. 


	3. would have

“It’s over.” 

Ed’s voice came out weak and strangled, like his vocal cords weren’t resting quite right in the depths of his throat or they no longer wanted to abide by his orders, rendering the sound slurred and almost incoherent. A sharp edge of the box he was resting his head against was digging deep into the back of his neck, but there was not a shred of energy left in his body to allow him to do anything other than drag in ragged breaths, and even that came with a significant struggle. He felt so very cold like there were specks of ice crystalising deep within his muscle tissue, freezing him and turning his skin blue despite the sticky hotness gushing from under his shaking hands. It hurt. It hurt so much. The pain radiating from the wound on his stomach was unbearable, spreading through his bones and nerves to render him paralyzed, unable to shift where he lied down on the ground or to choke out the blood pooling in his mouth, droplets of it running down his chin and sinking into the collar of his shirt. Even the world before his very eyes was no longer focus, like there had been too much life spilling out of him to keep all of his senses running; the sounds of shuffling and muttering nearby turning muffled, as though someone had shoved cotton into his ears. High above, there was a hole ripped from the ceiling of the warehouse that would soon become his tomb, white clouds sailing across the blue sky indifferent, unbothered. “It’s _not_ over,” he heard someone say, right before a pair of warm hands forced his own to the side, pressure appearing on his belly, and he could only assume that it was pressed down harder than he could perceive anymore. “You’ll be _fine_.”

A red drop landed on one of the lenses of his glasses as he wheezed out an agonizing chuckle, causing another spike of pain to spread through his being, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. “You know I won’t, Oswald,” he stated, and for a brief moment he thought that he should be sad about this, but he wasn’t. Maybe he was simply too tired and already too far gone to muster any bitterness or a will to fight, or perhaps, in a way, he thought that he deserved it. And it was worth it, wasn’t it? If he hadn’t been the one to get shot, well… _he_ would. “I think it hit my liver,” he then added, having only half a mind to run through all the possible scenarios and calculate the percentage of his chances while his brain was quickly ceasing to work. Even if the pain wasn’t going to send him into a shock he would not be able to recover from, he would surely bleed out dry before any help could arrive. Besides, who would even help him?

Out of the corner of his eye, where his vision still maintained some of its corrected sharpness, he could see Oswald shaking his head, his hair giving up on the gel and spray and falling down onto his forehead in black waterfalls, a crisp contrast against his pale skin. “It did _not_ hit your liver,” he stressed out as he leaned in forward, putting more of his weight on where the bulled had entered Ed’s body, still dug deep into his flesh, though he couldn’t feel it anymore. “You’re _fine_ , you’ll be _fine_ . I’m just-” his words cut off, interrupted by a shaky inhale, almost wet, almost like he was tearing up, almost like he knew how bad it was. “I’m just gonna call for someone. I’m gonna call for help. We’ll get you out of here, we’ll get you help, and you’ll be _fine_.”

Letting his head lull to the side, Ed forced his eyes to squinch as he attempted to focus his gaze on Oswald, his white face freckled with red dots and streaks, a deep cut going across one of his cheekbones. He was visibly distressed, shaking like he would every time there were strong emotions playing out inside of him, his upper lip quivering, indicating that he was on the very verge of falling apart. His lips did that--every time he would be about to lose his temper in a fiery fit of rage or crack in a vulnerable burst of tears, they would tremble and he wouldn’t try to hide it. There were so many things about him that Ed had picked up on over the years they had known each other, meticulously cataloguing every little detail, every little habit, every little mannerism like it was some sort of treasured information he simply could not let go of. Not so long ago, he had used to tell himself that the only reason why he had still held onto this vast library with Oswald’s name on it was for leverage. That it was easier to fight and win over someone when you had once known them so intimately, all the way from their background and past life, through their sources and allies, down to how they liked their eggs in the morning, but that was a lie. At some point he had gotten quite proficient at lying to himself, turning a blind eye on the glaringly obvious things, refusing to connect the dots so very clearly drawing themselves right in front of him. He struggled to swallow around the thing clogging his airways, his mouth feeling dry despite the blood still running up his throat. “Does it… matter…?” he asked, a shiver shaking his body. “Does it matter at all if I- if I regret the way things went…? Between us?”

There was a stretch of silence only briefly disrupted by the sound of the buttons of a cellphone beeping and unsteady sniffling. “It wasn’t your fault,” Oswald told him and the firmness in his voice was melting away into raw desperation like a sugar cube dissolving in the strong, black coffee he would always drink after a sleepless night with that disgusted expression on his face that made his nose crinkle. “It wasn’t your fault, Eddie. It’s on me, I-” he put his hand on Ed’s face, turning it to the side so they could look each other in the eye, even if Oswald’s were nothing but two, blue-green stains on the blurry white. “I shouldn’t have had her killed. I shouldn't have had Isabella killed. You- you were in love with her but, I- I was _so_ jealous. I couldn’t take it that you chose her over me.” He rubbed his thumb over Ed’s cheekbone, rocking slightly back and forth where he was kneeling, like a child lost and scared in the dark neck of the woods, clueless what to do. “I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry.” 

“I wasn’t in love with Isabella," Ed choked out, his arms heavy like they were made out of lead but his fingers were itching to wrap around Oswald’s hand at least once. There was stinging behind his blinding eyes, something other than pain and ice crushing at his chest. “I was never in love with her. Or Kristen… or Lee…” He let his eyelids fall shut, turning his face and nuzzling it into Oswald’s palm, trying to cling to consciousness for as long as there was enough blood in his body to keep him alive, using the warmth of skin pressed against his own as an anchor. “They were just placeholders. They were just- just- placeholders for _you._ I- love you, Oswald. Even if you don’t believe it.”

Oswald let out an anguished sound like a wounded animal, sobbing openly as he leaned in to rest his forehead against Ed’s own, stroking his cheek as tears poured down his face. “I know. I know, Ed, I know,” he cried with so much pain in his voice as if he had been the one with a hole in his stomach, lying in three pints of his own blood pooling up around him. “I know you do. And you know I love you too. I always have, and I always will.” He inhaled rapidly, hyperventilating. “We can make this work. We can still make this work. Just don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me,” he repeated the plea like a mantra, but then he moved in even closer to press his hot, almost burning lips against Ed’s freezing one, like it could breathe life back to him, like it could remedy all the hurt and betrayal they had both endured over the course of their relationship, like they could take it all back and start over. And no matter how badly Ed wanted to believe it to be the truth, he knew that this was the end of the road they had shared together, and that he was too weak to even say the things he so desperately yearned confess. His brain was shutting down, his heart slowing its beat, his skin growing cold. He had lost his chance, he had ruined it, he had missed all the times when he could have, he had refused to act with every chance when he should have, and now when he finally would have, it was already too late for him. If only they had a second chance, he would make it right. He _almost_ made it right.

This was how their paths would part--with an almost.


End file.
